Dangerous and Deadly Lord Voldemort
by Kevin3
Summary: A tale of illusion and deception - what better bedtime story could a magician tell his son than when he managed to pull one over on the entire wizarding world?
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This story takes place a few months before Harry Potter's second birthday.

**Chapter 1 - Arrival**

William smiled kindly down at his 8 year old son, a precocious boy who already seemed to get himself into quite a deal of trouble. William Junior… suitably named.

"Tell me a story," pleaded his son, settling under the covers of his bed.

"A bedtime story?" William asked, smirking a bit. "Like, Little Dinkle Duggle and the Silly Silly Muggle?"

His son scowled. "Pffh."

"Oh? What did you have in mind? I haven't read a nighttime story for you since you were six."

"I want a story of Illusion."

William settled back, his shoulder leaning up against the pastel wall of his son's room. He let out a sigh, seeming to appraise his son and evaluate the moment. It was all theatric, of course – he already knew full well that he was going to regale his son with a sensational tale. He watched his son's face growing ever more hopeful, purposely letting the anticipation build. Finally, acting as though he was relenting against better judgement, William sighed, "Oh… all right."

While his son grinned and settled under the covers, William began his story.

* * *

"Muggles have something they call 'Magic Tricks'. Well, the muggles that actually perform the tricks don't call them magic – they call it 'Illusion'. They know it's not really magical. And it's an art form – with illusion, you can convince someone of those most fantastical of things, get them to believe in the most unbelievable of ideas."

"Wizards?" William continued. "They can perform magic… but they know almost _nothing_ about illusion. Perform a 'Magic Trick' for them and you can get them to believe almost anything. In a way, muggles have it good. If they see a person pull a rabbit out of a hat, they _know_ the person doing it is doing some sort of trickery – even if they don't know _how_ it was done. Wizards? They immediately jump to the conclusion that the person must have conjured it out of thin air!"

William smiled a bit. "When I was ten years old, I got my invitation to Hogwarts. And on the train ride there, I decided on a goal for myself. Not to become the greatest wizard in the world… but to become the greatest _magician_. So, settle back, son, and I'll tell you the tale of the Dangerous and Deadly Lord Voldemort."

As the boats traveled across the Giant Lake to Hogwarts, William tried to take it all in at once. Not in the traditional sense of the phrase, though; he wasn't in shock or in disbelief – or even really in awe. No, he was trying to observe everything he could, to mentally catalogue and remember every little detail.

The way the water was unnaturally still, despite all the boats coasting along its surface. The way some of the castle towers seemed to jutt out at strange angles without the people inside walking lopsided. The way the quidditch hoops alternately flared with light as their flat surfaces reflected the setting sun.

Half of Illusion was Knowledge: Knowing something the watcher didn't. People that didn't observe what was going on around them would always fall for the tricks of someone who did.

All his rubber-necking, though, seemed to attract the attention of one of the fellow first-years. A small, slightly-gaunt looking girl smirked at him before finally snidely remarking, "You look like you're expecting a Dragon attack."

She reminded William of one of his former classmates. Slightly rude, slightly condescending, and much less intelligent than they thought themselves. _Well,_ thought William. _Might as well start out with a splash._

"Not dragons," he said, purposely letting a tinge of fear come into his voice. He didn't even look at her while he answered, instead still looking around the grounds as if in search for something. "Flying serpents."

"Fying serpents." Her voice was clearly full of disdainful skepticism.

"Aye," William replied. "Silent, and they blend in very well with the sky - dark pinkish-blue underbellies. They've already grabbed five of us."

"What in Merlin's name are you talking about?"

Inwardly, William grinned. Time to take advantage of the girl's lack of observation. "The boats were all full when we departed. Look around: how many full boats do you see?"

The girl rolled her eyes, but starting looking around to the other boats. Slowly her posture changed. "There... there are five boats that have a person missing."

William nodded. The truth was, those five boats simply departed without being completely full. Nobody was actually _missing_.

Still, the girl was skeptical. "They probably went overboard or something. I highly doubt there's an invisible and quiet flying serpent grabbing people without anyone noticing."

"_I_ noticed," William said, acting shaken. "And not just me. People are starting to realize what's going on - take a look at the front boat of people!"

Sure enough, the lead boat had some nervous crying coming from it. William knew that it was just due to some nerves and early homesickness – the main reason he pointed it out wasn't to try to sell his story, but to get the girl to look away for a few seconds. Time to see if that "Water is unnaturally still" would hold true… and how quickly (and quietly) he could jump overboard…

The girl squinted, trying to get a good look at the boat at the front of the pack. As she was trying to see what was going on, she felt the boat rock and she let out a nervous yelp without meaning to. _Darn that boy!_ Despite how silly his story was, he still managed to get her a bit worked up and nervous. She turned around to give him a piece of her mind... and he wasn't there.

"Bu... but... Did you see what happened?" The girl asked the other four new students on the boat, but none of them noticed anything either (well, aside from the boat shake.)

Needless to say, William's former boat was left with a quintet of terrified first years. He had to admit that he was curious why the water wasn't rippling at all from when he dove in – or for that matter, why there weren't any waves from him clinging to the back of the boat as it glided along the lake. As he tucked in tight against the backboard of the boat, he just knew that whatever the phenomenon was, it was giving him the perfect cover: how could anyone suspect he jumped overboard if there was no disturbance in the water?

Yes, Hogwarts was going to be fun...

* * *

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	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 – The Phantom Student**

His son grinned at the story's beginning. "How did you get the name Tom Riddle?"

"Well, my first trick in the lake was just for amusement. It was William Cartwright, a first year, doing some prank-like trick on the people around me. Real Illusionists? They create a persona, a larger-than-life character that's strange and wondrous, that's draped in the curtains of mystery. They're less… they're less people and more like an idea or a symbol. So that's what I needed to do. I created Tom Riddle, an image that I could build on and fill out as time went on."

"But... but Dad, you were enrolled as Will Cartwright, and the teachers knew who you were."

"True."

"… and they knew where you lived? And who your parents were?"

"Yes."

William Jr. looked confused. "So… how did you trick them? When you went to class, they _knew_ who you were, that your name wasn't Tom Riddle."

"You're right… I went the classes, did my homework, ate in the great hall… and I did it all as William Cartwright."

"But…"

"I also did the homework as Tom Riddle."

"Huh?"

William smiled. "I every bit of homework twice. I did it first in my usual, slightly-sloppy handwriting – and I purposely sprinkled in mistakes, misunderstandings, and incorrect answers. I'd turn that in with William Cartwright as the name. And then I'd do it again, trying to make it as perfect as possible, with neat, immaculate handwriting – and sign it as Thomas Marvolo Riddle."

"You did your homework _twice_?"

"It wasn't as bad as you think. I only had to do the learning once – I just had to write it twice. The tough part was actually figuring out ways of handing in Tom Riddle's work, and my first experience with my arch enemy…"

"… Arch Enemy?"

"Every figure of notoriety needs an arch nemesis."

"Who was yours?"

"Albus Dumbledore."

* * *

William loved transfiguration.

He also hated it.

Oh, it had nothing to do with the subject itself. He was pretty decent at it; while he wasn't stellar, he was at least in the top 5 in the first years at the subject – thanks to hard work and a moderate helping of talent.

No, it was Dumbledore. Professor Albus Dumbledore. The bane of his existence.

Every other teacher in the school? They took things as they came, rolling with the flow of events and not questioning or noticing things that happened beyond the ends of their noses. Dumbledore, though? He was uncannily brilliant and persistently observant. The jerk.

William had been working hard. Tom Riddle – a completely fictional character – had now become a sort of Urban Legend. All of the teaching staff was mystified at the fact that an unknown student was handing in some exceptional homework. Every paper submitted was at least passably good, and quite a few were truly outstanding work for a first year.

Some teachers thought he was a prank some student was playing. Professor Meriwether in particular believed it was some silly second year pulling their leg. After all, nobody had ever heard of Tom Riddle before this year, had they? He wasn't on the Hogwarts Ledger or any transfer listing. The only problem was, nobody could fathom a guess why a prankster would go through so much trouble and for such little gain.

Most, though, thought it was a home-schooled student. Slughorn loved expounding that it made a certain amount of sense – all of "Tom Riddle's" homework was being handed in during the same classes as the first-year Slytherins, so maybe it was some bed-ridden relative of one of them? Still, that left the problem of why Tom Riddle wasn't on any school documentation.

Which brought him to the only storm on the horizon: Dumbledore. How were you supposed to hand in a second set of homework under that man's eyes? All the tricks William knew, all the little sleight-of-hands that he pulled off without blinking against other teachers were unacceptably dangerous in front of that old man.

"You all right, Mr. Cartwright?" came Dumbledore's kind voice.

_Damn!_ William shook himself out of his thoughts. He had a lesson to focus on – and more importantly, he had yet another paper (this one about transmuting metals) that needed to stealthily make its way into the homework basket. Making things more annoying, William couldn't even properly observe Dumbledore without giving something away. Dumbledore could never think of William as observant, as smart, or as tricky; if he did, there would be no chance of giving birth to "Tom Riddle".

"I'm all right, sir," William said back meekly.

Dumbledore nodded, then addressed the rest of the class in his blasted kind voice, "When you're finished turning your toy blocks into brick, please hand them in along with your homework."

The jig was up.

Everyone was shuffling in their desks and some were already walking to the front to hand in their work. And William hadn't found an opportunity to cast a temporary sticking charm on Riddle's work to attach it to someone else's paper. Nor had he been able to sneak it into another student's pile of parchment. He briefly thought about doing a very risky thing – leaving it on the floor (like it had fell or been jostled to the ground from out of the basket) but quickly dismissed it. If anyone saw him drop Riddle's work, he'd be instantly noticed.

William swallowed as he followed a clot of Ravenclaws up towards the front. Halfway up, one final possibility presented itself.

He stuck Riddle's work to the back of his _own_. And prayed.

The seconds where William's hand dropped both sets of homework into the basket in front of Dumbledore's watchful eyes were some of the longest he'd ever experienced.

But it seemed to work! He turned away and took several elated steps towards the door. Until…

"Mr. Cartwright, will you please stay for a few minutes?"

William's heart sank. What should he do? What _could_ he do? If Dumbledore knew, would he even let William keep up his game? Surely he'd tell the other teachers, right? If not them, then at _least_ Headmaster Dippet. Obediently, he stayed behind, sullenly watching everyone else go to their freedom.

"Did you notice anything strange," Dumbledore asked, "when you were handing in your homework today?"

William shook his head side to side.

"Really?" Dumbledore asked. He fished out William's homework; while his sticking charm was only temporary, enough time probably hadn't passed for it to wear off. Sure enough, two sets of papers emerged from the pile. Dumbledore gently peeled them apart and set them down on the table in front of William, side by side.

"Mr. Cartwright," Dumbledore began, "… it seems like you also handed in work by a Tom Riddle. Would you care to explain?"

William's face stayed still, but his heart fell even further. He finally ventured, "Tom Riddle… he's a fake student I heard Professor Slughorn talking about."

Dumbledore smiled knowingly. "Would you like to hear something amusing, Mr. Cartwright?"

_No._ "Yes, sir."

"I had a theory that _you_ were Tom Riddle."

_Shut up old man. Just get this over with._ "Me?"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Until this moment, our mysterious Mr. Riddle had handed his homework in by attaching it to the back of every student in class. Every student, that is, _but you_. It seemed a bit of a strange coincidence. But, it seems, my guess was quite premature, doesn't it?"

_You have got to be kidding me. I am officially the luckiest kid in this silly school._

William didn't know what to say. He decided to keep it simple. "So I'm not in trouble?"

"No, Mr. Cartwright, you are not. Go on and join your classmates. The mystery of Tom Riddle is not your burden to solve."

* * *

William managed to make it through the last two weeks of Spring Term without any incidents… and he finally got the first reward of all his efforts. Headmaster Dippet had a tradition of posting the class results in the Great Hall after the last day of classes and tests. It was mostly for the 1st through 4th years (the 5th years didn't care about class grades and were more worried about OWLs in the summer; the 6th years were mostly trying to forget about those OWLs; and the 7th years were having nervous breakdowns about their NEWTs.)

This year, however, the class standings for the 1st years was drawing quite a bit of commotion. At the top of the list: Tom (Middle Name Unknown) Riddle - Slytherin (?). First in Charms. First in Astronomy. Second in Defense Against the Dark Arts. Second in Potions. Third in Herbology. Fourth in Transfiguration. First in Class Composite Score. All from a student that… nobody had really ever seen or heard from.

All this greatly amused William, hearing younger and older students alike on the train talking about the phantom first year prodigy – as well as the wide spectrum of rumors that had sprung up to explain the kid. It did make William realize something: he had an important decision to make: when would he no longer be William? When would he actually _be_ Tom Riddle?

Now, if William were older and more mature, the answer would've been obvious: later. Much later. Give the legend of Tom Riddle time to grow, cultivate it over several years. However, despite William's precociousness and talent, he was still just an 11 year old - and there was no way he was going to have the patience to do what he did this year all over again. He wanted _credit._

No, he was going to be Tom Riddle next year. He was tired of doing homework twice, of having his classmates think he was just that slightly-dull kid who never really accomplished a whole lot.

The problem was, it would look awfully suspicious if Tom Riddle showed up and just happened to look exactly like a slightly older version of William.

But, that was a solvable problem. Not easily, of course. He'd have to improve his musculature, get a whole different set of mannerisms, new quirks of speech, switch his wardrobe, alter his hairstyle – heck, he'd have to alter pretty much every aspect of his public face. After all, the more Tom Riddle had in common with William Cartwright, the easier it would be to figure out what was really going on.

Still, just because a problem wasn't easily solvable didn't mean much to William anymore. Being able to fool Dumbledore wasn't an easy problem either. And if he could, as a first year, manage to get Dumbledore as an arch-nemesis and pull one over on him… well, he could do just about anything he set his mind to.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 – A New Student**

"Dad?"

"Yes?"

"There's something I don't get."

William smiled. "What's that?"

"So... you were there as William and you handed in Tom's homework. And next year you were going to be Tom. What about William? Wouldn't people wonder where he went?"

"You're right," William replied, nodding. "The teachers knew who William was, who his parents were, where he lived, and so on. He couldn't just disappear. So a few weeks into the summer vacation, I ran away."

"What?!" his son shouted, sitting up from under the covers. "But..."

William put up a hand to interrupt. "Junior, there's something you need to understand. Your mother passed last year, but you remember how she used to hug you when you got home from school? How she baked you the cookies you like, and cheered you up whenever you had a bad day? And you know how I tell you stories before you go to bed each night, and tickle you until you giggle and snort, and play Gobstone wars with you?"

"... yeah?"

"Well, my parents... weren't like that. I didn't really have a family." William swallowed; this wasn't something he'd ever told his son before. Heck, he didn't really tell almost anyone about it. "I was really into magic tricks when I was little, and so I'd always be in my room practicing. My father was hooked on muggle television and worked 12 hour shifts at the smelters - most days, we'd never even say anything to each other. I only have vague memories about my mom, but I think she was just as distant. It wasn't like we were really a family… more like people that just happened to live in the same house."

His son looked devastated. And it made William proud. While William grew up in a pretty emotionally-chilly house, he'd managed to raise a son that couldn't even conceive of not being loved by his family. What higher mark was there as a parent?

"It's okay," William said soothingly to his son. "It was a long time ago, and it wasn't as terrible as it sounds. It's not like they were mean or anything - it was just like... like we were all distant friends."

"... so you ran away?"

William nodded. "Tuck in, and I'll tell you a little bit more of the story."

* * *

William thought it would be harder, running away. But he realized something: most kids that ran away were doing it because they thought they had it rough, that they were feeling disabused and were entitled to something - only to find that the real world was a lot harsher than they expected. Food, shelter, clothes, safety; there were a lot of things kids generally didn't think about.

Which was the exact opposite deal with William. He wasn't out for coddling or pity. Plus, being a wizard on the run was quite a bit easier than being a muggle. It's amazing how many of life's core problems are solved with a little bit of creative wand work. Still, William didn't know whether the Ministry of Magic tracked underage magic by _where_ the magic occurred at, or by which _wand_ cast it. Deciding to play it safe, William pilfered the wand of the first wizard he came across. And then he did the one thing he was flabbergasted that wizards didn't do all the time.

He robbed a bank.

Oh, it wasn't like some grand caper movie. That would've been extraordinarily dumb. Flashily and ostentatiously stealing millions of pounds from a vault in some grand magic trick would've not only brought all sorts of muggle investigators, but wizard ones as well. No, he just snuck in with some basic wandwork, took a very small stack of notes (just enough to get through the summer) and walked out. Afterwards, the bank wasn't even sure if it was a simple record-keeping error or minor embezzlement.

By the time the summer ended, William had given birth to Tom. His mannerisms were no longer the quiet and reclusive William's, but that of a confident, almost arrogant pre-teen. His clothes were a painstakingly chosen to be second-hand yet immaculately tended, the sort of aura that a poor family would have wearing their sunday best. His hair was cut very short, so much so that there was scarcely enough to even part it. Between a lucky growth spurt and his intense physical regimen, Tom looked almost nothing like William Cartwright who had been reported missing three months prior.

As he boarded the Hogwarts Express, he began looking for a compartment to sit in. He had very specific requirements. He had to find a room with older students - the first friends that Tom Riddle made should be older than him (it'd be more impressive that way). But they couldn't be old enough that they'd look down at him - he had to be able to _impress_ them. There also had to be at least one Slytherin in the room as well, because that way they'd be able to spread word of Tom Riddle directly (Slytherins tended to not put a whole lot of stock in what, say, the Hufflepuffs talked about.) And, well, they had to be popular. No sense in getting Tom Riddle's name immediately tied to something like the Hogwarts Official Herbology Club or something similarly lame.

As he was halfway down the train, he knew he had found the right room. They were a mix of third and fourth years, at the age where the girls and boys were beginning to be awkward around one another. Two of the girls were on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, two of the boys were relatively well-known Ravenclaw purebloods, and the last was Sean Hallis, the top Slytherin student of the third years.

As soon as Tom stepped in, Sean immediately confronted him. "What are you doing? Who invited you in?"

_Perfect! Sean doesn't recognize me!_ William didn't answer and merely took a seat. This seemed to flummox the five older students. "Well, who are you?" chimed in the Gryffindor girls.

William smiled and nodded towards her. "My apologies. My name is Thomas Marvolo Riddle." And seeing as how he was playing at an aristocrat, he even took her hand and gave the surprised girl a kiss upon her knuckles.

"Whoa, Derek, you better watch it - this guy's going to steal your girl away."

"She's not my girl!" Derek replied with a red face.

After a brief mock-fight between the two Ravenclaw boys, Tom genteelly greeted the remaining students. He found out that the two Gryffindors – chasers, it turned out – were Penny and Eurice. The Ravenclaw purebloods were Derek and Mark. Apparently Derek and Eurice were at that awkward and discomfiting point of not-quite-old-enough-but-sort-of boyfriend and girlfriend (but-not-quite.) Sean, of course, Tom Riddle already knew (he was in the same house and only a year older.)

"Okay, it's game time," Penny said, grinning.

"Quidditch?" Sean asked, raising an eyebrow. "Really? On the train? Are you insane?"

"Not quidditch, stupid!" Penny replied, rolling her eyes. "Magic."

"Magic game?" Mark asked, raising an eyebrow. "Like Exploding Snap? Not a fan."

Penny smiled. "No, something better than that. A bet, if you will. We're all about the same year. We all show off our coolest spellwork – and whoever can do the best trick wins."

Derek sat up. "Wins what?"

Betting and Illusion went hand in hand. There was a reason for the concept of a "Bar Trick". However, William knew there was an art to the wager. You had to bet something _small,_ because otherwise the other person might not fulfill their end of the bargain. Wager a month's rent and the only thing you'd be sure of is _not getting a pound of it._ Bet someone for a small wager and they wouldn't even hesitate to pay up. So before anyone else could propose the terms of the bet, William chimed in with, "Three chocolate frogs from each of the losers."

"Sounds good," Eurice said, grinning savagely. "Everyone agree?"

Everyone did. And William went to work.

Not on his trick, of course. No, on fulfilling the adage: Save the Best For Last. He was the best (of course) so he had to make sure everyone else went before him. It actually wasn't too difficult. Just a few nonverbal cues and the right words in the right spots, and each of the older students were volunteering to go next.

However, there was a small problem: all of the spells they did were much better than what Tom Riddle could do. Granted, he had the highest scores of any of the first years... but everyone else in the room had been at Hogwarts for at least _twice as long_ as he had and weren't exactly slouches themselves.

"So, Mr. Riddle, what are you going to do?" Mark asked. "Some little first-year trick? It's not like you have a whole lot of lessons or magic under your belt."

"Mark!" Sean chided. "Go on, Tom. Let's see what you've got."

William sat up straight and prim. _Showtime. _"I'm going to perform the Mobilis spell."

"Hah!" Mark crowed.

"... wandlessly."

This seemed to perk everyone's interest. Wandless spells were notoriously tough.

"... and without an incantation."

Mark laughed. "Oh, come on. I call bullshit."

Sean looked at the younger student appraisingly. He'd heard a few rumors of 'Tom Riddle' - mostly that he was exceptionally bright and nobody knew who he was - a sort of phantom prodigy. Granted, the idea of a first year student performing wandless, incantationless charms was ridiculous… but was it ridiculous enough that the mysterious Tom Riddle couldn't possibly do it?

William smiled. "Mark, I need to borrow your quill."

"Why?"

"Because if I use my own, you'll try to weasel out of giving me my chocolate frogs."

Mark rolled his eyes, but dug into his supplies. Despite appearances, William didn't ask Mark because of the bantering antagonism between them. He asked because Mark was part of an affluent pureblood family… and hopefully his quill would be elaborate enough for what William had in mind. Sure enough, it was a fine specimen made from the feather of either a hawk or an eagle, with the lower spine protected by a thin plating of a bluish metal.

Which brought up what his father called "The First Rule Of Illusions." The mechanics, the actual How-Do-I-Do-This of an illusion wasn't the important part. What really, truly mattered was the charisma and showmanship behind it. William was about to perform the first Magic Trick he'd ever learned – one that was incredibly simple to actually do, but relied heavily on the magician to frame things just right.

William slowly, delicately placed his hands upon the table. The sides of his hands hovered a hair's-width above the surface with the palms facing inward, one hand on either side of the quill about four inches away.

His eyes fluttered half-shut, putting on an aura of concentration and will-gathering. His mouth slowly opened, his hands trembling slightly from a non-existant effort, his spine and face tensing slightly...

The quill began to wave a bit before moving along the table away from him.

"Holy shit!"

"No… no way."

"Looks like you owe the man some chocolate frogs, Mark."

All showmanship. Do it well enough, and nobody notices that you're simply blowing on the blasted feather.

Or almost nobody. Sean smiled slightly and said, "Do it again."

Oh, that tone of voice. The slightly-smug tone of someone who was _sure_ they figured out the trick, someone who was only a few seconds away from raining on a magician's parade. The thing was, William was a big fan of Rule Number 5…

Tom Riddle blinked in supposed confusion, taking his hands away and putting them upon his lap. "What?" he asked.

Sean grinned deeper. "I said," he said slowly, "Do it again. But, oh... lean back this time."

Tom blinked again. "Uh, sure."

Everyone watched as the new second year proceeded to concentrate upon the quill once more.

A quill that once again began to move by some quiet, wordless, wandless spell.

_Rule of Illusion 5: Always Have A Backup Plan_

"Huh," Sean said, both bemused and confused.

"So do I win?" William asked, all the while thinking _Ah, I love magnets..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 - Memories**

"Dad, There's something I don't get."

"Oh?"

"Dumbledore... I heard that Dumbledore was the one that recruited you to Hogwarts."

"He wasn't lying."

"But... but he _didn't_. Tom Riddle _didn't even exist_ before you went to Hogwarts."

"That doesn't mean he's lying."

Seeing the confused look on his son's face, William smiled. "Dumbledore believes he met Tom Riddle when he was 10 years old."

"You... how did you do that?!"

William smiled. "Tell you what – I want to show you something before I try to answer that." He waved his wand and a soft scraping sound began echoing from the other end of the house. His son looked confused as to what was going on, until the door was pushed open revealing the source of the noise: a pensieve that William had summoned from his own bedroom. The four legs of the vanity it rested on were lightly rustling along the wooden floor until the basin was right next to William Jr.'s bed. "You know what a pensieve is, right?"

"Yeah. The Tillens' neighbor has one. I didn't know you did, too."

"I don't use it very often," William replied shrugging. He pulled a wisp of silver thought from his temple, gently flicking it into the basin with a flourish. "I'd like you to take a look at a memory from my past."

William Jr. frowned but did as his father asked. It was a bit awkward, trying to crane his head over the edge of the basin from his bed, but after a several seconds managed to find a good position. And... if he was expecting something once he entered the memory, it certainly wasn't this.

They were in a lagoon, standing on a wooden dock stretching over azure waters. In front of them, 20 feet out into the water, was a semi-circle of life-jacket wearing tourists watching a man in a wetsuit – a man who was helping a five year old boy put his hand around a dolphin. William Sr. was easily recognizable as one of the swimmers, grinning at the dolphin-handler and the young boy in the center.

"That's... that's me?"

The memory faded out, with father and son once again looking

"Do you remember it? Think clearly... do you remember what you ate that day?"

"... no..."

"It was your fifth birthday. Your mom wanted to do something out of the ordinary, something unusual."

"I... I remember it being sunny but too warm... I think."

"Yes, it was sunny all that weekend."

A half-minute went by, the son struggling to piece together what happened over two years ago. "Yeah... it was sunny, and... was there a blue cake?"

"That's right – a cake with blue frosting. I think it was white underneath."

"I think I remember," his son said, starting to smile a bit. "I think the dolphin kind of scared me at first."

"Just for a minute," William said soothingly. "After a few minutes, you two were best friends. Tell you what: think about the memory as cleanly as you can, make it as crystal-clear in your mind as you possibly can."

His son frowned and closed his eyes.

"Okay, borrow my wand, touch it to your temple, and flick it towards the basin – and think to yourself 'I want to see this memory' while you do it."

It took three tries, but eventually William Jr. managed to get a tendril of silverish energy deposited in the pensieve.

"Good job, son! Want to take a look?"

The pair ventured into the pensive once again. It looked very similar to the first time, but William picked up on some changes. The Tillans were back on the beach on the edge of the docks. They were sitting around a wooden table, upon which was a large blue cake and several silver-wrapped presents beneath the bench.

A minute later, they both emerged from the memory.

"Very good! You remembered that awfully well!"

"Yeah," William Jr. said, grinning. "I remembered that after I swam with the dolphin, we opened presents with the Tillens. They were _sooo _jealous that I got to play with the dolphin and they didn't."

William smiled, ducking his head a bit. "There's just one problem."

"What?"

"You've never been to the ocean or the beach."

"What? Yes I have!"

"It never happened."

"I... I don't understand. If I've never been to the beach, how do I remember the Tillens, the presents, how they were jealous of the dolphin and all of that!"

"Because you made it up," William said – and then seeing the angry interruption coming from his son, quickly added, "Well, your brain made it up."

"My brain did _not_ just make up that memory."

"Why not? It happens all the time. You remember how your mom and I could never agree on what happened when we first met? Both of us remember how we met... but we both have different memories of it."

"You..." William Jr. seemed to be angry and speechless. "You lied to me."

William sighed. "I didn't want to. It's just.. unless you saw that, you'd never believe the next part of the story."

"I still think you're playing some sort of joke on me. I remember the dolphin like it was yesterday."

"Memories are like... little shards of thought. Your mind likes misplacing them, misremembering them... and it even can make up its own shards. All it took was showing you a... a picture that your brain believed was true, and it started churing. It took slivers of things it could remember – that it was sunny, that you had a blue cake... but the fragments it couldn't remember it just completely made up."

His son looked unconvinced.

William mentally chided himself. Okay, maybe he shouldn't have given the demonstration to his son – it wasn't exactly something that instilled a lot of trust afterward; there was probably a different way of handling it that wouldn't leave his son incredulous after the next bit of story. Still, it was something that's hard for people to come to grips with: that memories were the most malleable thing in the world. The brain loved shifting and churning them, and "recalling" them with a clarity that hid how badly constructed they were in the first place. You want to know how shaky memories are? Ask a muggle psychologist or a muggle magician. Want to hear a bunch of idiotic falsities about them? Ask a wizard.

William blamed Pensieves. They made the user think what they were seeing was what actually happened; in reality, about 99% of what a pensieve showed was made up _on the fly_ by the wizard's brain at the moment they were seeing it - people simply didn't remember all the details of what was going on around them, let alone enough enough to construct a perfect immersing world. Heck, even if memories were somehow absolutely perfect, the _human eye itself_ only captured detail in a small narrow beam exactly where it was looking (peripheral vision was just vague blurring.) No, William knew that Pensieves were closer to dream-worlds, a realm the subconscious constructed around a few key details. There was a good reason why Pensieve memories weren't allowed as evidence at the Wizengamot.

"I'm sorry, son," he said apologetically. "I just needed you to see that trick before you could understand how Dumbledore was fooled into thinking some of the things he does."

His son frowned. "So you showed him a fake memory?"

"No, my arch-nemesis would take a lot more work than that than that. I had to start small..."

* * *

William's - or, more accurately, Tom Riddle's third year at Hogwarts was shaping up to be the same smashing success as his second. He was easily at the top of his class. While part of it was deserved (he had a very keen mind, was exceptionally observant, and put more work into his studies than pretty much else) at least a portion wasn't really fair. First, 'Tom' loved schmoozing the professors – sweet talking pretty much every professor but Dumbledore (he wasn't sure if he could bamboozle that man.) And second, Tom had a habit of accentuating his magic ability with illusion. All sorts of abilities were sprinkled into his resume - the occasional wandless spell, the casual supposedly-incredibly-difficult spell.

So far, though, his favorite was Parseltongue.

That had to be the easiest magical ability to fake. _"No, really, I speak a language that none of you understand - you just have to trust me that when I hiss for five seconds, I'm really saying something"._ Poppycock. Complete, Utter Poppycock. Throw in some observation (_"The snake says he wants you to fetch your pet mouse..."_ - not a hard guess if you know he hasn't eaten in a week!) and some simple spells (pretend you're talking to a snake and suddenly nobody bothers watching your pocket for wand movement) and you're good to go to everyone thinking your the second coming of the Holy Snake Whisperer.

And boy, did he _sell_ it. Without really meaning to, within the year half the students were telling lurid stories of Tom Riddle - anything from him being the Heir to Salazar Slytherin to him having a secret lair within the castle called the Chamber of Secrets.

He grinned, thinking he might be on to something. Up until now, Tom Riddle was just going to be a brilliant precocious wizard. Maybe he should think about turning his persona into a sort of upcoming dark lord?

The only obstacle to trying to go that direction was going to be Dumbledore. The man was a legend, an implacable foe of evil and darkness. So if Tom was going to shape up to be Dark-Lord-In-Training, it would no longer simply be Dumbledore being his Arch-Nemesis, but Tom being _Dumbledore's._ Oh, he didn't think he was going to have to _fight_ Dumbledore - not by a long shot (and William had no delusions that he would last for more than a half second against the elderly professor.) But... well, real pairs of arch-nemeses had a personal backstory. Former colleagues that had a falling out. Brothers that split apart at their parent's death. Or something. And, if he _did_ become Dumbledore's nemesis, it was a sure bet that the old man would dig further into Tom Riddle's (non-existent) past.

But William knew he couldn't just fabricate something. He knew there was no story he could write, nor trick he could employ, that would somehow slip through the man's formidable mind. Dumbledore, sadly enough, would probably see straight through his deceptions.

Which actually bugged William quite a bit. And it finally occurred to him: he needed to violate one of the Illusionists Rules. Specifically, Rule Number 8: Always Be In Control.

Simply put, he _couldn't_ be in control – there was no way he was going to write a memory for his Transfiguration Professor. So… why not take a gamble? Why not let _Dumbledore_ create Tom Riddle's past?

Tom Riddle spent his third year working on just that. He'd give out little tidbits, little tiny nuggets of information – and nothing more. Certainly no intricate or detailed story or memory. One day he'd toss out an offhanded mention to a muggle orphanage in a conversation with a Ravenclaw. A week later he'd tell a small story of being a bully to some other kids with accidental magic. Or the next day, mentioning during Charms class that the Assistant Headmaster taught him a charm before even getting to Hogwarts. Nothing big, nothing obvious, just… clues. Let Dumbledore focus on them, dwell on them. William knew he'd never be able to plant a memory in Dumbledore's mind, so why not just lay some groundwork and let the man build those memories for himself?

And thus began the legend of yet _another_ fictional character: Lord Voldemort. William began the secret story. Tom Riddle was disgusted at himself, his name, his history. The Slytherins couldn't help but sympathize. Imagine: growing up in a _muggle orphanage_. Poverty _and_ Muggles! What a disgrace for a proper wizard. The old headmaster, they clucked, probably got a kick out of seeing poor Tom Riddle staying in such a squalid environment. Well? No More. _No more_, Tom Riddle told his classmates. He was dead - Riddle was only the "official" name on school rolls, but from now on, his secret name was Lord Voldemort (William appreciated the irony of his public persona having it's own private persona.)

William had no clue how few or many of those nuggets found their way to Dumbledore, or even how they got there (Rumor mill? Mind reading? Indiscreet comments?) The only thing that convinced William that this would work is that he knew Dumbledore had a Pensieve – which made him one of the silly wizards that thought memories were infallible records of the past. With any luck, the man would build at least one or two memories of interacting with a pre-Hogwarts Tom Riddle.

**Author's Note: **This chapter might seem a bit unbelievable at first. The scary part is that it's all based on reality. Psychologists have done tests on memory and have basically come to the conclusion that it's basically a creative and confident liar. The pensieve with the dolphins in this story? Psychologists have done that exact test (with photos instead of a penseive, obviously) from a number of different angles; for example, by photoshopping a picture of the subject riding in a hot-air balloon, they were able to foment an extended _false_ memory of the flight which never occurred.

I also wanted to thank Clell for his recommendation and all the people from Caer Azkaban. I was getting a bit disheartened (3 chapters, no reviews a dozen or so people that even read any of it) - so a deep thanks for all your encouragement.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 – Incantations and Deceptions**

"… so what actually happened?"

"About Dumbledore's memories?"

"No, I mean…"

"…"

William Jr. finally blurted out, "What happened on my fifth birthday party?"

William smiled guiltily. "We went on a picnic with the Tillens. It was a sunny afternoon, we had sandwiches and lemonade, followed by a big blue cake and presents."

His son pondered that for a bit. And then changed the conversation back. "You… about the story, how you were turning into Lord Voldemort…"

"Not turning into," William quickly interrupted. "I was _pretending _to be him."

"Well, but… pretending… I mean, he was evil, that he cast all sorts of bad spells. Did… did you cast spells like that?"

"No, not like that," William replied, smiling. "Would you like to see a trick?"

What a silly question. Of _course_ his son wanted to see a trick.

"Okay, now, you need to try to figure out how I do the trick. If you can, I'll tell you the next part of the story."

William Jr. nodded intently.

William Sr. waved his wand with a small flick, and with a clear voice called out "_Lumos_." Immediately, a ball of light seemed to be glued to his wand, illuminating the room quite comfortably.

"That's just the light spell," his son complained.

"Just keep watching." He dispelled the magic, plunging the room back into dim lighting. "Now… how about… _Terigularimae!_"

Once again, an orb of light appeared, only to be dispelled several seconds later.

William Jr.'s mouth pursed and he didn't say anything. He couldn't see any difference between the spells.

"What about…_Malargulanum!_"

For a third time, the room was magically lit; each spell appeared identical to the others.

William Jr. frowned, eventually asking, "Were… were those different languages?"

His father reacted with surprise. "I'd never thought about that. I've never actually done a spell that wasn't in Latin."

"Okay, so it wasn't a different language. What did you do, then?"

"You have to figure it out." William smiled. "Maybe this will help… _Williamus Excellentium!_" Defying all logic, the wand lit up a fourth time.

The 8 year old boy was getting a bit peeved. "That makes no sense!" he complained. "Saying that you're 'Excellent' in fake latin is _not_ a spell!"

"One last time," William said, trying not to snort with laughter. "If you can't figure it out after that, you'll have to wait until tomorrow to hear the rest of the story."

His son sullenly nodded. William waved his wand one last time… and this time said nothing. Yet his wand lit up.

"Well, that's simple," his son said slowly, "you just did it without an incan… wait a minute… you… those were just gibberish earlier… but…"

William grinned in full. "I think it's time to talk about my OWLs…"

* * *

He was so close. So close to a perfect on his Charms OWL.

_Nobody_ got a perfect on an OWL. It just didn't happen. Legend had it that the only person that had ever managed a perfect in even a single subject was Dumbledore himself.

And yet… Tom was almost there. If he were doing the test honestly, he'd probably get an Outstanding on it… but Tom wasn't exactly limited to 'honestly' doing anything.

Silent Mobilis? _Of course I can do that spell sir… if you don't mind me secretly doing a Leviosa spell instead and purposely doing it off-balance so the object skews off to the side._

A Scorpion-Repelling Charm? _Absolutely not a problem… as long as you don't inspect my ward to see that it's not 'repelling' the scorpions so much as shocking them if they get close._

The Patronus Charm? _Oh wait, you forgot to ask me to even do that one, given that I temporarily altered your instruction form while you were watching those Scorpions._

However, it looked like his run was at an end. The final question, the final test… and he had no way of knowing what to do.

It was ridiculous! What 5th year could _conjure_ a half-meter block of silver? Oh, sure, 5th years would _surely_ have a chance of conjuring _2,000 freaking pounds of metal_.

He wanted to complain. He wanted to say it was impossible. He wanted to accuse the proctor of cheating… which would be ironic, considering _he'd_ been doing that quite a bit himself.

Instead, he asked in a bored voice, "Would you repeat the instruction?" _Stall. Buy some more time._

"I said," the proctor drawled in a disinterested voice, "that I want you to conjure a cubical block of silver, at least a quarter meter in length."

_This is stupid. Who needs a block of temporary silver that big? What, am I going to drop it on a Giant/Werewolf hybrid's head? Well, if that incredibly unlikely scenario ever rears its ugly head, I wouldn't be stupid and try to _Conjure_ the blasted thing, I'd just use _Transfiguration_ – heck, I could just transmute the air itself into it. Why should I use a blasted Cha…"_

His breath caught. He was on to something. He _could_ do this. The problem was it wasn't with the right spell. This was the _Charms_ OWL; he was instructed to use Conjuring, not an entirely different branch of magic. Maybe if the proctor had been female, Tom might have managed to flat-out sweet-talk the woman into accepting a Transfiguration solution for full marks. This guy, though? No way.

Now that he thought about it… not only could he do this, but he was pretty sure he could do it without even using an incantation. After all, it was just a block of a single plain substance and in a very simple shape – there was no need to worry about patterns, curves, conjoined materials, or any of the usual transfiguration obstacles.

He was extremely tempted to try just that… to do the 'wrong' spell but without an incantation. Problem was, the proctor would no doubt figure out what happened. Heck, Tom wouldn't be surprised if a lot of students didn't try to do that cop-out.

Tom could only see one option. He'd never heard of anyone even trying this before.

He waved his wand.

He softly said, "_Conjurus._"

And he mentally screamed the incantation for the _transfiguration_ spell.

A large block of silver appeared. The examiner squawked in amazement. Well, William was a bit surprised as well – though of course he acted like the end result was never in doubt. He had a persona to maintain, after all.

So it came to pass that Tom Riddle became the second student ever to achieve a perfect score on an OWL.

And, ironically, Tom cared a lot less about the test result than what he found out during that last question.

It changed… well, it changed _everything_. The moral chasm between William and Voldemort had started stretching uncomfortably wide. At a few dozen points now, situations had come up where what Voldemort _should_ do was something that William was not comfortable with. Sometimes Voldemort would win out and he'd cast a spell that cost William some sleep – nothing overtly evil, but still not something that a good person would enjoy having on their conscience. And sometimes William would win out, with Voldemort doing something that seemed a bit out of character… because despite appearances, William had a pretty reasonable conscience.

Now, though? Now he could do _anything._

Oh, sure, there were limitations. The spell he pretended to cast and the spell he actually cast had to look the same. He couldn't cast a bloodred "Hilarulum" or a bright-white "Stupefy" – the fact that the color was off would give away that he wasn't casting the right spell; He couldn't cast a "Mutus" that made fireworks appear, because everyone knew that's not what Mutus did. And, of course, the spells he did had to be simple enough that he could do them without an incantation.

Still, these were solvable problems. And although it made that summer the busiest of William's life, he solved them.

With 6th year approaching, Hogwarts had no idea what was coming…

* * *

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AN: Few bits of news. First, this story is finished in its Rough Draft form. So you can expect a new chapter every 4 days or so, because all I have to do is revise and edit them. There will probably be 5 remaining chapters after this one. Second, I've begun work on this story's sequel, and I am _Excited_. I thought this story was fun, but it's nothing compared go getting both father and son involved in the action...


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6 – A New Dark Lord**

"So what spells did you use?"

"You mean, which ones did I fake?"

"Yeah. It seems like you couldn't do it to too many incantations. I mean, how would you make a Lumos look like a Stunning Spell?"

"I had to pick the right combinations. Right now… I think I've got about four dozen spells I can disguise as other spells – but I've been practicing them and coming up with them for years. Back then, going into my sixth year, I only knew three, and it took me all summer to get them."

"Which ones?"

"How about this… how about I tell you about the first time I used each three?"

* * *

Tom Riddle was impatient. He'd spent _months_ working on these three spells, and it was positively killing him to not use them all right away. Heck, he was battling to refrain from doing them all in the first five minutes of the trip on the Hogwarts express.

Still, he knew that patience was sometimes a requirement to being a magician. And that the best way to do a trick was to perform it at the right time.

Luckily, though, he didn't have to wait long. The perfect opportunity arose on his third night at the castle.

The upper years were all clustered in the commons, struggling with an essay for Slughorn. The man was a bit spacey and quite lacking in common sense… but he certainly didn't take it easy on his students after summer vacation.

Tom reached a midpoint of his essay and realized he was going to be required to delve into some underlying theory involving metamorphic materials. Which, of course, required his transmutation book – which he'd left back up in his room. Just his luck: he'd finally gotten comfortable on the stupid bony armchair (why did "Regal" have to be so uncomfortable? Stupid Pure-Bloods.)

He was just about to get up before realizing he'd finally reached a natural point for a performance.

"Mjolin, go get my Transfiguration book from my room for me."

The common room fell utterly silent at this. Tom Riddle had just issued an order to the Head Boy. And while Tom Riddle had the respect of his elder 7th years and wasn't someone people trifled with, that wasn't to say it was the 6th year's place to be casually placing commands on Mjolin – who was not only a 7th year Head Boy, but just happened to be the scion of one of the richest pureblood families in Europe (even if it was Finland instead of England.)

Everyone looked at Mjolin, wondering what he was going to do.

"Get it yourself, Riddle. I've got coursework, too."

Inwardly, Riddle was impressed. A lesser Slytherin would've gotten angry and blustered. A weaker Slytherin would've given in. Instead, Mjolin deflected the issue in a way that still implied that he was the leader of Slytherin.

Still, that wasn't going to stop Tom now. "Imperio," he said as an afterthought, pointing at the older student. "Now, Mjolin, go get my Transfiguration book."

Everyone's jaw fell. Mjolin got up, went into the 6th year dorm, and came back with a book. Without a word, the older student set it on the table beside William before resuming his 7th year studies.

Tom Riddle fought not to react, to pretend that this was just business as usual. His classmates, on the other hand, were in a stunned stupor. Tom Riddle… had just used an _Unforgivable Curse_… just so he didn't have to get up from his chair?

As for Mjolin? Well, being placed under a _Trust Charm_ really helped his perspective. Sure, Mjolin had NEWTs to work on, but he could see that the 6th years were actually in a tough spot because of Slughorn – and he 'knew' that Tom wouldn't have asked unless he really needed to stay focused on his work.

Oh, there were limitations, of course. A Trust Charm wouldn't have gotten Mjolin to jump out the window to his death, to attack someone without cause, or… well, to do anything remotely dangerous, strange, or out of character. But his classmates didn't think about that, or ask themselves if a _different_ charm could've gotten the same result. All they saw was an unforgivable curse casted with an almost callous relaxation.

The next performance was a little less than a week later. He was trying to get to the great hall to meet up with some younger purebloods trying to suck-up to him (okay, being a dark lord on the rise _did_ have its advantages sometimes) but found himself accosted by an annoying first-year student outside the entrance.

"You are a jerk!" the little 11 year-old said in a half-shout.

"Excuse me?" Riddle said, blinking. The thing that made this most surreal, in his opinion, was the Hufflepuff trim on the robes. While he had respect for Gryffindor, he had to admit that they typically had the most aggressive bluster. But this sort of behavior from a _Hufflepuff?_

"My brother told me what you did to that bird last year!"

Riddle had no clue what this twerp was talking about. Had he killed a bird or something? Maybe he was doing some sort of charm… oh! That's right. He was learning Aveo that year, and instead of simply banishing his crow, he made it combust. Maybe the Hufflepuff's brother only saw the combustion part, and put it together with Riddle's dark reputation? Maybe the older brother was jealous? Heck, for all he knew, the two brothers were founding members of "Give Our Conjured Animals Dignified Deaths" or something similarly stupid (at least, it sounded pretty Hufflepuff-ish.) _Heh, of all the things this kid could be justifiably yelling at me about, _this_ is what he chose?_

Well, why not break in the second spell?

"Listen to me you insignificant firstie." Riddle's voice cut like a knife. "I don't have to put up with you yelling at me. I could talk with your prefect, but I think I'm going to solve this my own way. Should be... _fun_."

Conjuring wasn't complicated. Difficult, maybe, but not complicated. Learning to do it without an incantation might not sound tricky, but of all the things William had to do that summer, that undoubtedly took the longest. But it was well worth the effort. Incantation-less Conjuration was an incredibly flexible tool – with it, he could conjure temporary boils on a person, create a layer of charred skin, pretty much anything that looked like the end result of a hex. And while William would just brush off this annoying 11-year old, Voldemort couldn't let this intransigence pass – and there wasn't any worries about Voldemort costing William sleep – if a first year couldn't deal with someone putting _fake lesions_ on their body, they probably shouldn't go to Hogwarts in the first place.

For the first performance, Riddle kept it simple: Skin Rot. Well, at least that's what it looked like, and it didn't take a whole lot of understanding of latin to figure out what 'Epidurmae Pestilum' was intended to do. Truth be told, it wouldn't be terribly difficult for a victim to figure out that their skin wasn't actually rotting off, as long as they kept a level head...

"_Yeeuuurrrrgggghhhhhaaaaahhhh_!" screamed the first year hysterically, tearing off to the infirmary.

Or not.

Still, the showstopper was to come at the middle of October. William was walking through the western wing of the castle, trying to ignore the flunkies behind him. He wasn't actually headed for any place in particular; he just felt like strolling around a bit, and he had nearly an hour before his next class.

When he rounded the corner, he came to quite an unusual sight. At first it looked like a 2nd year Ravenclaw (Jullius? Jallad? He wasn't good at remembering some of the newer students) student was fighting a slightly-mishapen man wearing a Gryffindor robe. When he came closer, he saw that it wasn't a grownup, but Rubeus Hagrid, a 4th year half-giant in Gryffindor. And it wasn't exactly a fight. J-Something was trying to wrestle a book away from a strange feral beast, while Hagrid was trying to stop the 2nd year from hurting the animal. Riddle snorted. Only Hagrid would worry about the small kid hurting the untamed beast – any sane person would be worried about the child being injured.

The animal looked like a cross between a wolf and a toad. Riddle had no clue why Hagrid would try to breed a gigantic furry amphibian, but he supposed everyone needed a hobby. Though it was at least surreally funny to see a frog's tongue stuck to a book while a wolf's head croaked angrily. What would you even call something like that? A Labrador Leaper? An English Pit-Frog? Or something latin, like Caninus Amphibia?

Both students looked over at Riddle. The Ravenclaw seemed torn, but eventually said, "Tom Riddle, can you help me out?"

This was a tough one. _Technically_, cross-species breeding experimentation was a crime, and while first offenses were usually pretty light, all test subjects were to be destroyed with prejudice (the only exception being if the Ministry Office of Magical Creatures granted dispensation.) While it might seem harsh to kill the animal when it didn't do anything wrong, William generally agreed. Who knew what consequences releasing a completely new species into the wild would do? Better for some trained experts at the ministry figure out what the ramifications would be.

So one option would be to simply report the issue. Not Voldemort's style.

He could walk away as if he didn't care. That would be more in character… but it would leave a potentially unsafe beast roaming the castle. If Hagrid's little pet killed someone when William could've stopped it, he wasn't sure he could live with himself.

No, the only good way of handling it…

"_Avada Kedavra_," Voldemort said, pointing his wand at the strange beast. A green bolt of energy connected before anyone could react.

Both the Ravenclaw and the Gryffindor stared at him, mouths agape. Heck, the Slytherins behind him were dumbfounded as well.

Voldemort leaned down. With one hand, he picked up the young student's book; with the other, he hefted the creature. After silently giving the Ravenclaw their book back, he continued walking down the hallway. No noise came from anyone in the hallway; Riddle loved the effect the quiet had, seeming to amplify the importance and the shock of the moment.

It seemed to even unnerve the Slytherin flunkies, who decided to stay back and leave Riddle alone for a bit. Which was fine. William needed to find McNair. After all, his uncle worked on the Magical Creatures Office and the younger pureblood owed Riddle a favor.

_All that time, looking up magic theory, spell variations, and energy matrices – just to turn a simple stunning spell a specific shade of green..._

* * *

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	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 – Slytherin's Heir**

"Why are you frowning?"

"I'm still mad about you lying about the Dolphin, Dad!"

"You think _you're_ mad?" William said, settling back a bit. "Imagine how furious _Dumbledore_ would be if he ever found out his greatest enemy never actually existed?"

"Why didn't he kick you out of Hogwarts?"

"Kick me out? Why would he do that?"

"Well, you were being _mean_. Or, or they thought you were at least."

"They don't kick people out for being mean. I studied hard, I worked hard - and, well, not a whole lot of people outside of Slytherin actually saw me do anything too terrible – and the ones that did really couldn't say too much. Hagrid could've reported my spell, but he'd have to admit he broke the law. The Ravenclaw could've… but they probably felt like I was doing it to help them out. And, well, the Slytherins either liked me too much, were scared of me too much, or just hated telling on fellow students too much. The worst I ever got the last two years was a few detentions."

"Nuh uh. What about the basilisk?"

"What Basilisk?"

William Jr. stared at his father. "I know you let out a Basilisk your final year at school. Something about the Chamber of Secrets."

William laughed; he couldn't help it. "Yeah, about that..."

* * *

Tom Riddle was on top of the world; William was despairing.

Not only was Tom Riddle the top student at Howarts - nobody came anywhere close to his abilities (whether magical or illusionary) but he was the top dog as well. He was conferred an amount of respect that, frankly, even the professors rarely got. Sure, "Tom Riddle" loved the alpha status of an upcoming dark lord who even the upper year Gryffindors didn't want to tangle with…

… but it made William's job terribly difficult. He wanted to leave Hogwarts with a splash, but that wasn't exactly a possibility if everyone was already treating him like the king of the world. What could he do to impress everyone if... well, everyone was already impressed?

A few weeks before Halloween, Tom was making his way to the Charms classroom. Usually, he found a gaggle of lower-year Hufflepuffs or Gryffindors to trail behind – being slightly amused by how nervous some of them got simply to be trailed by the "evil" Slytherin (sometimes they even squeaked!) Today, though, he had to make do with a pair of 6th year Ravenclaws – and they were too engrossed in gossiping to even notice he was there to begin with.

However, as the three of them were about to pass the Ancient Runes classroom, they stopped.

"I think he's in here," one whispered.

Tom was confused.

"Oh, come on, you can see him later – we're going to be late for class."

"Give me a minute, I just want to peek in. He's _so hot_ when he's doing magic."

Tom rolled his eyes. _Silly girls._

The infatuated Ravenclaw slowly eked the door open... only to find that it wasn't smart to open any sort of passage into a 7th year Ancient Runes classroom while they're working. Slate-blue tendrils of old magic wafted into the hallway at accelerating speeds, looking like phantom appendages of a gossamer assassin vine. Tom's eyes widened as the pair of Ravenclaws became as stiff as statues, paralyzed by some primeval magic. The door quietly closed, but the Ravenclaws were still frozen in place.

"Uh…" Tom murmured to himself. "Huh." He brandished his wand, and was _pretty_ sure he knew how to reverse something like this… until he thought to himself: _How can I use this?_

It didn't take long to come up with an answer. The school was already full of whispers that he was Salazar Slytherin's heir – and the generally accepted rumor for his first-year absence was that he was spending all his time in his secret lair, the Epic and Mysterious Chamber of Secrets.

Well? Why not have some fun with this? The legend was that there was a _monster_ in there (something probably terribly horrendous – that's how legends always seemed to go, after all.) So maybe someone should bring "it" out to play.

Grinning mischievously, Tom instead cast a memory charm on the two Ravenclaw victims. No sense in letting them remember why they got frozen (and honestly, any reason for getting petrified was better than "I wanted to stare at my crush through a crack in the door and an accident happened.") Instead, he put a vague memory of some monstrous yellow eyes. Tom had no clue what sort of monster had yellow eyes – but he figured that was the sort of detail that could get filled in by someone else.

He then used a mobilis spell to maneuver the students to a better location. The corridor above the Great Hall should work. Finishing his work, he put some magical writing on the corridor wall:

_To those who deny His __ascendancy_

_His monster emerges once more_

_Ready to restore His name_

_Greatest of the Hogwarts Four_

He surveyed his message. Suitably mystical, a simple rhyme, and yet… it didn't leave a whole lot to chance. There was no way on earth someone intelligent could read that and not know who the "His" was. One of the Hogwarts four, a male, and willing to wield a monster to claim a place above the other three houses? Not even the most hard-headed Gryffiphobe could believe that such a passage would describe _Godric_.

The whole affair was actually pretty easy. Shortly afterwards, he drilled a foot-wide hole in the Arithmancy classroom behind one of the tapestries; the hole led to a closet of an adjoining vacant classroom. From there, it wasn't too hard to find a suitable victim every few weeks, stun them, place them in that closet, pick them up after class ended, and move them to however he wanted the next petrified victim of "Slytherin's Monster" to be found.

The next several months were... strange. The Slytherins were begging Tom to tell them how he did it; he relentlessly feigned ignorance and refused to confirm anything. And, of course, the Slytherins immediately took that to mean that, yes, he did truly have a gigantic monstrous… _something_… following him around and dispatching anyone that displeased him.

The other three houses were understandably terrified on him. In classes, there was a 20-foot bubble around him where non-slytherins simply wouldn't sit (which made the tight confines of the Herbology greenhouses positively hilarious.) In the Great Hall, at least two dozen Ravenclaws had taken to sitting with the Hufflepuffs on the opposite side of the hall, simply so they didn't have to sit so close to the Slytherin table. It even got to a point where some older Hufflepuffs were selling copies of Riddle's class schedule simply so people would know _which corridors to avoid between classes._

Only the professors were acting normally, seeming to believe that Riddle was innocent – and knowing that the idea of a large mystical creature running around the castle undetected was a bit far-fetched. Most held the (correct) theory that it was some unknown phenomenon that was causing the petrifactions. As for Dumbledore? Well, he seemed to know that Riddle was doing _something_, and was occasionally trying to catch Riddle making a statement or comment that would give away a nugget of information.

By springtime, "Slytherin's Monster" and "Slytherin's Heir" was the talk of the school...

* * *

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AN: I was asked how much reader reviews played into the content of chapters 4-6. The answer is: not much. This story was/is in a place where I like it - I'm comfortable with the pace, tenor, and plot. About the only major change I've done since the initial rough draft is to split chapter 5 into two separate chapters (one for the OWL exam, and one for the examples of the combos) - before, it was much sketchier and crammed into one chapter and it didn't feel very fluid to me.

However, the reviews are making a huge deal of impact in the rough-draft I'm working on for the sequel. I've already rewrote and restructured several chapters based on feedback - especially the comment about there not being enough 'zing' - I've taken out and condensed parts where there wasn't enough oomph and added new sections to spice the story up.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8 – Accomplices**

"What about Myrtle?"

William looked down at his son. "You heard about Myrtle?"

"Mom mentioned her once. Said she was in Myrtle's house before she died."

William nodded sadly. "I didn't have anything to do with Myrtle... well, I didn't while she was alive."

"Huh?"

"I only really met Myrtle after she died..."

* * *

Everything had changed.

William swallowed, hiding and hating the feeling of self-loathing, feeling like the glares of all the students were a pressing against him from all sides. They all believed it. They all believed he'd killed someone, that he'd killed Myrtle.

They all believed he was a murderer.

Sure, the staff tried to show him some compassion and pity. But that was nothing compared to the hundreds of angry, frightened, accusing glares of fellow students. And Dumbledore… he had a very hard look behind his eyes – no joy, no merriment, no forgiveness. For the first time since his arrived at Hogwarts, William knew just how dangerous the position of "Dumbledore's Arch-Nemesis" was; he suspected that if Dumbledore had one more speck of certainty in Riddle's involvement, William would find himself broken by the elder wizard. Maybe his mind would be shattered as a glass sculpture beneath a hammer? Maybe his magic would be withered like a lone crop in a barren field. The possibilities were terrifyingly endless.

It wasn't his fault! William, Tom Riddle, Voldemort – _none of them_ had anything to do with Myrtle. And it took every ounce of his willpower to not scream that as students shot terrified glares at him… or every ounce of willpower to not break down into sobs.

Finally feeling himself reaching the end of his tether, William ducked into an unused classroom and huddled inside, all thoughts of attending Transfiguration that day abandoned. A quiet whimper left his mouth as he slumped against the wall.

"So," echoed a female voice.

Riddle panicked a bit; he was _sure_ the classroom had been empty. It took him a few seconds before he finally saw the source of the voice: a floating head poking in through a solid stone wall.

_A ghost,_ he mentally sighed in relief. "So…" he called back uncertainly. _I've never seen this specter before…_

The apparition glided through the wall in full, floating into position 10 feet in front o him. "So you're the boy everyone is claiming killed me."

Tom's eyes widened. "You're… you're Myrtle?"

Myrtle nodded.

"What _happened_?" Tom pleaded.

"Why should I tell _you_?" she shot back in a nasty voice.

"I... I don't know."

Myrtle grunted. "You know, I really didn't want to die, but you have to admit, that's at least a pretty impressive way to meet your end."

"What is?"

"Being killed by Salazar Slytherin's Epic Monster, set loose by his Long-Lost-Heir."

"That's not what happened!"

"Prove me wrong!"

William groaned. Was he really being extorted by someone who was dead? "Myrtle, you didn't die from Slytherin's Monster. I don't think he even _had_ a monster."

"Well, I think it's a better story than what actually happened… so… I think, from now on, Slytherin's Monster is going to be my story."

William was feeling a bit worried. "Will you at least tell me how you died? I mean, for real?"

Myrtle shook her head side to side.

"Why not?"

"Not saying."

"Why aren't you saying?"

"Not saying that, either."

William groaned. This wasn't working. He tried another approach, "Fine, what are you going to tell people when they ask you how you died?"

"Who cares?"

"Well," Tom said carefully, "this isn't exactly going to fade away. I mean, I don't know how long ghosts _live_, but you're probably going to be here for many, many years. You have any idea how many people are going to ask you that same question? I mean, if you met a new ghost, what's the first question you'd ask them? How did you die, of course."

"Eh," Myrtle replied with a phantom shrug. "I'll just tell them your monster killed me."

Tom inwardly trembled at that. Outwardly, he laughed. "Fine, what's question two, then? What did monster look like?"

"..."

"Oh?" Tom crowed (still inwardly terrified.) "You don't think anyone will ever ask you that?"

"Fine," Myrtle said in resignation. "So, what _does_ your monster look like?"

"Knock it off! You did _not_ die by some horrendous monster attack."

"How do _you_ know? You can't have your monster around you all the time – you have to go to classes, go to the common room, sleep in your dormitory. Maybe, when one of those times where you weren't around, your monster snuck out and killed me, hmm?"

Tom shook his head in disgust. He was, once again, getting nowhere. "Myrtle, how about we make a trade?"

"A trade?"

"You obviously don't want to say how you _actually_ died, and I've got a secret about the monster that nobody else knows, something that nobody _can ever know_. How about we trade those two secrets?"

"Hah," Myrtle said, grinning. "I already know your secret. You are the heir of _Salazar Slytherin_, and the monster is under your control. I don't know if you can even call it a secret – everyone already _knows_."

Tom smiled, deciding to take a risk. "No, Myrtle. That's what everyone _thinks_. The secret is that the monster _doesn't_ actually exist."

Myrtle frowned. "What?"

"Everyone that's been petrified? They're victims of second-hand Ancient Runes. The first one was an accident… but after that, I've been stunning people, subjecting them to petrifaction, and then writing fake messages on the walls. _There is no monster._"

Myrtle stared at him for several seconds.

…and then burst out laughing for a good half-minute.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me!" Myrtle crowed. "All this talk, and you're just a _charlatan_. You're not the heir, you don't have a monster, and you're just pretending this whole time... while _denying_ it over the top of everything?"

Tom bowed theatrically. "So you see what I mean: I have a secret that nobody else knows, that nobody else _can_ know. Now, it's your turn."

"Oh?" Myrtle said with a predatory grin. "I never agreed to share. In fact, what if I just told everyone else what you said?"

Tom nodded and replied, "Then what would you say when people asked you how you died? You can't expose me for being a _charlatan_ and then turn around and blame my monster for your death."

Myrtle's look fell. "I hadn't thought that part through."

"Well?"

Myrtle groaned, slumping to the ground. "I'm a potions experimenter."

Tom blinked. "That's incredibly dangerous!"

"I know, but I'm very careful – ironic, hearing a dead person say that. I was working on a new anti-nausea draught. All the tests said it would work, all the eigenvalue metrics said the reactants would be stable, and even the taste index said it would be have a mildly-strawberrylike flavor."

"So what went wrong, then?"

Myrtle didn't answer.

"Myrtle?"

Another groan came from the ghost. "I did all that, I did all the due diligence, calculated all the difficult stuff… but I missed the most blindingly obvious problem. One of the necessary ingredients to stabilize the concoction was Arsenic, a muggle poison."

Tom forced himself not to react. That was an incredibly bone-headed thing to do. Then again, he supposed if you got wrapped up in the details and theory too much, you could miss something basic back in Step 1. Missing the forest for the trees, so to speak. After a few seconds, he said "That's... that's not good."

Myrtle couldn't help but chuckle. "Understatement, that is. A new, wondrous anti-nausea elixer; kills everyone who drinks it!"

Tom smiled. "Doesn't seem fair - you're obviously pretty smart, and you shouldn't go the rest of eternity with people thinking you died from something silly like that. So we're _both_ in a tight spot. You can't tell anyone what really killed you; I can't let anyone know the real truth about this whole 'Slytherin Monster' business. So let's make up a new story."

Myrtle frowned. "It makes sense for your monster to kill me. I mean, after all the petrifactions."

"Oh, not _my_ monster," Tom replied, grinning. "But if we do this right, people will not only think you died from some frightful beast of legend, but that I helped save the castle from it..."

Myrtle grinned as well. "Let me guess. It just takes the right set of lies?"

"Exactly."

* * *

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	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9 – Far Too Much Dark**

"All the stuff you did, Dad… later on, how did you not turn evil?"

William looked down at his son. "That's the crux of it," he replied softly.

"You actually did become evil?!"

"No, though I was in a very, _very_ difficult position."

"Why?"

William sighed. "Everyone likes blaming Voldemort for the first war. What most people don't know is... that war was brewing for decades and it was going to explode any day. You wouldn't believe the resentment, the entitlement the purebloods had. They had this... roiling indignation of how the world worked – which was _not_ how they _wanted_ it to work – and had all this pent-up fury at the people that they blamed for that difference."

"Then, mix in the darker magic that they had available – spells they knew, tomes they housed, artifacts they'd purchased – and a bit of darker morals? No, the wizarding world would've been in a civil war within a few years anyway – whether or not Lord Voldemort was ever around. All Britain needed was a catalyst."

"What's a catalyst?"

"An ingredient that doesn't really do anything by itself, but sort of gets the ball rolling - something that sparks or ignites the situation." William swallowed. "That's what Lord Voldemort was, even though I didn't realize it at the time."

"So... so what did you do? Did you… _kill_ people?"

"_No!_" William said forcefully. "Though... sometimes people died because of me..."

"_What?!_"

William ducked his head. "I should explain..."

* * *

Circe's corset, was Tom Riddle in over his head. All he wanted to do was erect a magician's persona – a sort of shadier, more mysterious version of Dumbledore.

But, no. The Wizarding World just _had_ to be churning with dark politics, and of _course_ he'd managed to find himself at the thick of things. Why couldn't things ever be _simple?_

Two thousand.

_Two. Freaking. Thousand._ By his count, that's the number of wizards in Britain alone that he'd classify as being on the dark side. And while a lot of them were what he'd call "semi-evil", an uncomfortably sizable minority believed in things that sickened him. Muggle slaughter. Kidnapping. Torture. Assassination. Heck, he guessed that at least 200 of them wouldn't mind overthrowing the statute of muggle secrecy and institute a new order whose backbone consisted of muggle servitude. And who did those 2,000 consider their charismatic and sensible leader? Voldemort, exemplar of wizarding power.

And on the opposition? Dumbledore, and at most a few dozen civilian militia. _Maybe_ a few dozen aurors, but given that they were under control of a ministry teetering on darkness, it was debatable whether they even counted for anything.

Tom's first thought was to back out, to fade away into the night and have no more part of this. But the horrible thing was, it wouldn't change anything. Events had begun unfolding, and the wave of twilight rushing to the shore didn't need him anymore – it was going to crash upon the land whether he was part of it.

No, the only way to stop it was to get ahead of it. And he couldn't do that if he changed direction.

"Malfoy!"

His blond-haired lackey ran over to him. "Yes, my lord."

"I think it's time to show the wizarding world that a new dark age is ascending."

"How, my lord?"

"I'm going to spill some muggle and wizard blood tonight. Be vigilant for my signal and make sure the Daily Prophet is alerted as quickly as possible."

Voldemort apparated to a nearby muggle town. Once there, he paid no attention to the muggles looking at his robes with questioning glances. Instead, he cast a vision modification charm on himself. Suddenly, the people around him no longer looked human, but appeared as blurry shapes of reddish light. Or at least most people did. The ill and infirm faded to a mustard yellow, and those truly on death's door were a sickly dark blue.

He was looking for something in particular, and it took nearly 15 minutes to find it: a 30-something year old man in a home with a dark ugly blue aura. This man was minutes – if not seconds – away from greeting death. Voldemort struggled, knowing that he had the power to save this man, to steal the muggle away from death's embrace. But instead, he watched as the man's aura flickered pitifully as a feeble blue candle, before finally snuffing into darkness. William swallowed. Despite what anyone would've thought, this was the first time he'd actually seen death. The fact that it was abstract – a blue glow fading to black – did nothing to help him with his conscience.

Steeped in anger (mostly at himself,) Tom furiously shouted, "Bombarda Expulso!" The house was consumed by a vicious explosion, blowing bits of construction and furniture across violently through the air. Not waiting for the dust and debris to settle, Voldemort incanted, "Morsmordre."

It was his new calling card, eventually simply being referred to as The Dark Mark.

William wanted to throw up, he wanted to leave – heck, he wanted to go to Dumbledore and sob into the man's robes. But he mutely apparated to the next town to "kill" another. The thing that horrified him the most? After the first dozen muggles that died in front of his eyes… it seemed easier, it seemed to hurt less to watch the second dozen pass away. What did that say about him? Who was he anymore? William? Riddle? Voldemort?

Towards the end of the night, after two dozen muggles were "slain", he did the same in two wizarding villages. It took longer – not only are there far fewer wizards than muggles, but wizards tended not to die early deaths as often as muggles. Not only that, but Voldemort had a specific requirement: the two he "killed" had to be victims that would make those 2,000 dark wizards think twice.

Elizabeth Demeter was a mother of three recent Hogwarts graduates and was widowed as of last year. She was a kindly woman that worked at St. Mungos as an assistant. She was even a halfblood – so even the most wretched of purebloods couldn't use heritage as a reason to excuse her murder.

Budd Reisling was a muggleborn but was surprisingly well-known. He'd previously worked at Hogwarts for nearly two decades as a Herbology teacher, with most of the students thinking of him as a kindly but quiet professor. Afterwards, he volunteered tending a public arboretum to while away the years of retirement – gardens, incidentally, not three blocks from the Ministry of Magic. Most everyone that worked at the Ministry knew his face if not his name.

That day, Budd, Elizabeth, and 24 muggles were slain without reason by the new Dark Lord. That day became known as War's Dusk, and was considered by many as the start of the War Against Voldemort. It was the day that open hostilities began between the two sides, the day where Voldemort declared his true loyalties, and the day where most pureblood wizards realized just how far their leader would go to obtain and demonstrate his power. The day where those 2,000 got to see just what was end of the wrong tunnel.

Afterwards, Tom returned to his lair. Nobody was there – his "Death Eaters" were all too busy doing logistics and handling contacts at the Daily Prophet.

There was no turning back now.

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	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10 – War and Intermission**

"What was the war like?"

At first William didn't answer.

"Dad?"

"It was... it was horrible. I was surrounded with the most terrible people in the world, the most hideous of fiends. People that could do the most horrendous of acts and somehow get _amusement_ out of them. And… I had to not only pretend to be just like them, but to pretend to be _worse_ than them, and somehow be their _leader_. The boss of about seven dozen of the blackest souls in the entire country."

William sighed. "It was a struggle. Every person they killed, every person they hurt – they'd come to me and _brag_ about it. The only way I ended up being able to live with myself is that I managed to kill off nearly two-thirds of them before the war was over."

"Wait, you killed your own followers?!"

"Well, not directly," William replied. "But a lot of the successes Dumbledore's team of militia had were really due to me. You have to understand, the Order of the Phoenix was pretty close to useless. They didn't work together, they didn't have any sort of game-plan, half of them were ineffective at fighting, they were outnumbered by at _least_ 5-to-1… and they were trying to fight while obeying the laws passed by Voldemort's stooges. If the Death Eaters really knew how bad the situation was, they wouldn't have shown any hesitation... it would've been a bloodbath."

William sighed. "It took everything I had to make the Order of the Phoenix effective. I'd maneuver Death Eater after Death Eater into seemingly-simple missions, only for it to 'surprisingly' turn out be encounters where they were outclassed. A simple assassination of Terrance Prewett would coincidentally be sent out on the anniversary of his wife's death, when Moody and the Weasleys were at hand to pay condolences. An attack on Hogsmeade would happen to occur when Dumbledore was visiting the Three Broomsticks. And several of the nastier fighters I didn't take a chance with: I 'discovered' them leaking secrets to the Order, and they were killed by my own minions."

"What's funny is… by the end of the war, the Death Eaters probably had more respect for the Order of the Phoenix did than the actual Order members did. The Order at least had a clear picture of how badly they were outclassed and outnumbered – they probably just felt they were getting incredibly lucky at not getting wiped out within the week."

"So how did things end?"

"A stupid prophecy."

"Prophecy? You were in a _prophecy_?"

"No," William answered. "Prophecies are stupid, idiotic, vague announcements that have no power or predictive value. The only use they have is fooling or leading people that aren't all that bright."

"So how did a prophecy end the war?"

William swallowed. "Some fool made a prophecy – that the conflict and war would come down to two individuals: the 'Dark Lord', and an unspecified child. This child would be born at a specific time, under specific circumstances. It's all incredibly vague – and like I said, it doesn't really _mean_ anything. If you took that same prophecy and gave it to someone 200 years ago, they would be _absolutely certain_ that it applied to some _other_ Dark Lord, and some _other_ child born under those circumstances."

"The problem is," William said, his face darkening, "is that I had some true idiots under my rule. One of the dumbest – a fool that called himself Wormtail – heard the prophecy and decided to try to use it to gain my favor. He was _positive_ it was talking about an infant named Harry Potter, who was the son of James and Lily Potter – two people that he'd known back during his school days."

"This is where it gets truly absurd. _Dumbledore_ believed the prophecy as well, and had taken truly monumental steps to protect James and Lily Potter, even casting the Fidelius Charm to protect their house. But he used _Wormtail_ as the sodding Secret Keeper for the ritual."

"None of this should have mattered," William nearly growled. "I didn't care about the Potters or the Prophecy. Actually, I kind of liked James Potter, simply because he had a nice habit of always coming out on top when facing my Death Eaters – which meant he was a nice way of sending low-level goons to their end."

"But like I said, Wormtail was trying to show some initiative and trying to impress me, so he decided to take advantage of being named Secret Keeper. He showed up at the Potter residence and… and killed James and Lily. Probably poison; the man wasn't very skilled with any sort of wand work. He then summoned me to a house with two dead parents and a young baby."

"Son," William said, his voice growing softer, "you have to understand what that was like. I was brought to a house by a man, showing me the bodies of two good, decent people he killed, and gesturing to an innocent 1-year old kid that he expected me to slaughter. I may not have lived the best life until that point, but I'd never directly killed anyone. But I couldn't take it anymore. I killed him, I killed that hideous evil man."

William had difficulty breathing. A soft half-sob came out like a hiccup before he could continue. "Harry Potter laid in his crib afterwards. There was only way the situation could possibly end, only one thing I could try to do. I raised my wand..."

His son was practically shivering in fear and anticipation.

"... and I sealed a life-debt onto him with a spell."

"_What?_" William Junior had clearly been expecting something else. "You made him owe _you?!_"

"No, no, I owe _him_. That lightning bolt scar? That's the symbol of the debt; it will only go away once the debt's been paid."

* * *

The next two years were quite a bit strange. William Jr. decided he wanted to follow in his father's footsteps, becoming a magician during his years at Hogwarts. That was something his father was a bit undecided about… but wisely knew that he didn't really have a whole lot of say in the matter. Apart from the obvious issue that parents really didn't have a whole lot of control on their kids while they were at Hogwarts, he'd feel like a hypocrite for even trying. After all, when William Sr. was there, he pretended he was a _Dark Magical Lord_ in the making – how exactly could he complain about his son trying to be an illusionist as well?

So instead, the father decided to begin teaching his son some of the tricks. Creativity. Thinking outside of the box. Observation. Stretching trust. Misdirection. He was proud that William Jr. was shaping up to be even better at it than him… he wondered whether that made him a bad father or a good one.

As his son was packing to attend Hogwarts, William Jr. looked up at his dad. "I'll try not to get expelled."

"That's probably a good idea," William replied, smiling.

"I'll make you proud, too. And I'm going to see if I can help you pay your debt. You know, with Harry Potter – he's going to be there at school with me my 7th year."

"What?" William was a bit dismayed about that. "It's _my_ debt, not yours."

"I don't see why I can't help out, especially when I begin Act Two."

"_Act Two?!_" William was starting to panic a bit.

"The Return of Lord Voldemort."

"No! I forbid it."

His son didn't argue. Which, William knew, was his son silently saying '_Yes I am, and there's nothing you can do about it.'_

A few minutes went by, each of them staring the other down. William Sr. was angry; William Jr. was defiant.

After several seconds, William Sr. knew that he was fighting a losing battle. Plus, it was pretty difficult to yell at your son for doing the exact same thing you did when you were his age… _especially_ if it was something you didn't regret looking back on it.

Finally, he asked, "How would Voldemort return? I tied up all the loose ends. Even Wormtail is dead."

"Oh? _Is_ he?" his son asked, smirking. "Apart from the two of us, nobody knows what happened to him. Besides, you're forgetting the first rule of Legendary Dark Overlords of Humanity."

"Which is..."

"... Dark Lords are like magicians. They never really die, they're immortal."

* * *

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	11. Notes from the Author

Notes from the Author

First, I wanted to thank all the people that left reviews for this story. I really loved writing it - and I'm glad I could spread some of that enjoyment to others (okay, yes, I do enjoy the ego-boost of positive feedback...) I'm also really happy where this story ended up.

Second, the first chapter of the sequel is up - go to my author profile; it's called "Dangerous and Deadly: Clash for the Stone"

Some special acknowledgements:

Clell - first, thanks for the recommendation. I think about 90% of the traffic the story got was from your original word of mouth. Seriously - my email all of a sudden blew up from emails, and I couldn't figure out why - it wasn't until someone told me about the Caer Azkaban site that I figured out why.

Daled - I want to apologize on the timing of one of the chapters. I didn't mean anything by it. You had just posted the "This story isn't canon because of these reasons"... right before I was posting a chapter detailing some of the explanations. It wasn't someone intentional or purposeful - I had the chapter planned for quite a bit, and it wasn't in response to your review.

SomeGuyFawkes - your review actually shaped quite a bit of the sequel, with me trying to get more zing into it. I disagree about this story, though - I really like the pacing and content. Difference of opinion, I guess.

Esran - Sorry you didn't like the life-debt. If it makes you feel better, I'm not really making the whole "life-debt" something typical or what you'd expect.

Zik - Don't judge the son too harshly just yet. I don't know if I'd say either of the Cartwrights are "good", but I'd definitely say they're not "bad". I'm shooting for flawed, realistic people. I don't want either of them to turn into super-wizards of utter pureness or absolute blackness.


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